


but you don't see me making songs about it

by thegatorgood



Category: Derry Girls (TV)
Genre: Cousin Incest, Dry Humping, F/M, Huddling For Warmth, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:42:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22704892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegatorgood/pseuds/thegatorgood
Summary: James jerked away and looked at her, then must've decided making eye contact wasn't a good idea, and then must've decided that staring at her tits instead wasn't a good idea either.  "Michelle, you aren't seriously offering me a pity fuck.""Of course not," she said, and she could tell he was more than a wee bit disappointed by her answer, "I was thinking more of a pity handjob."
Relationships: James Maguire/Michelle Mallon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48
Collections: CLOSE ENOUGH FEBRUARY 2020





	but you don't see me making songs about it

**Author's Note:**

> Set between episodes 105 and 106. For the stranded/trapped together - Canadian shack/low stakes square.
> 
> Title from the Lonely Island's "I Fucked My Aunt," aka the Jon Snow anthem.

The whole thing, Michelle reasoned, was Emmett's fault.

All the women in Michelle's family had had man trouble, she'd known that since she was old enough to kick her uncle Paul in the shins, but at least they got something out of the man, be it a wedding ring or a wee one or a haunted manse in Belfast.

Emmett had fucked off without making any promises or even buying Michelle a drink, and he'd taken the tent and James's bag to boot. So he'd given her the experience of listening to James whinging about losing his things, and the prospect of being crammed into a caravan with Clare and Orla and Orla's ma and Erin and Erin's baby sister and Erin's parents and Erin's grandda, for a week. And James, of course, but she'd been living with him for two months, and mainly she was concerned that Erin's ma wasn't going to let her drink in peace.

"Well," said Erin's da, as they piled out of their cars, "this is a pickle."

"I told you not to," said Erin, "I warned you, I warned you all--"

"At least we didn't get stopped at the border with him in our trunk," said Clare.

"Does nobody seriously care that he stole my bag?" asked James.

Nobody dignified that with an answer.

"Well," said Erin's da, "we do have a tarp or two. Maybe we could prop them up against the side of the caravan? Use some sticks to make a frame and some stones to weigh the edges down. That's all a tent is, when you get down to it."

"Is it?" said Erin's aunt. 

James raised his hand like they were at school, the dick. "Maybe we could sleep in the cars?"

"Ha," said Erin's grandda. "You English bastards have taken everything else form us, and now you want to take our cars?"

James put his hand down. 

"I think it's a great idea," Clare said, but in a whisper, and then she ducked her head when Erin's grandda looked at her like he could still see the stain of the Union Jack T-shirt over her tits.

"So," said Erin's da, "maybe the five of you could go looking for sticks and stones? Only you might want to split up, the sky's getting dark."

"I'm going with Erin," Clare said.

"I'm going with Erin too," said Orla. "I'm still comparing her lived life with her recorded life."

Erin gripped her fists and made a face like a martyred saint and said, "I told you I needed a lock on my door, I told you she won't stop reading my diary!"

"You should find a better hiding place," said Orla placidly, examining a curl of her hair, before turning off into the woods. Erin chased after her, and Clare hurried after _her_ , and Michelle realized that they'd only gone and fucking left her with James.

"Motherfuckers," she swore, and dragged James off into the woods into her. At least Emmett hadn't stolen her bag. Her bag had the alcohol in it. 

James whinged, but Michelle expected nothing less. And she could hardly blame him. For all that shit about Ireland's emerald dales, the woods around the campsite were drippy and full of moss and boulders. It was easy to put a foot wrong and even easier to stumble past a low tree and get your face whipped by its scraggly branches. The wilderness was a fucking nightmare. Michelle tried to wrestle a branch off a tree, because that was what they were supposed to be doing, and also because it'd smacked her in the tits when she'd tripped over another fucking stone, and eventually she held it aloft, feeling fierce like one of her ancestors who'd probably beat the shit out of the English or the Scots or the Vikings or whatever.

"It's a little bit crooked," said James, and Michelle swung it in his direction pointedly. The palms of her hands were scraped and her nails were almost certainly a mess, but she had a big motherfucking stick and everyone was going to know about it.

James had been gathering some downed branches. All the rocks were fucking useless, either massive fucking boulders or tiny pebbles that couldn't hold down shit. That was the country for you.

"Do you think we have enough?" James asked, clutching his bundle of sticks like it was somebody's baby. "Only Erin's dad was right, it's getting awfully dark--"

And that was when the sky decided to open up and rain buckets down upon them.

James dropped his sticks. Michelle swore.

"Right," she said, and reached out to grab James's sleeve. "Fuck the rocks, fuck the sticks, let's get the fuck back to the caravan and out of the fucking rain."

"Has anyone told you," said James, "that you swear excessively?"

"Fuck off," she said, and began to drag him back in what she thought was the direction they'd come from.

After a few minutes of wading through the fucking rain, James started tugging her a different way. "It's that stream," he said, gesticulating wildly at shit Michelle couldn't see through the rain.

She followed him, because it wasn't like she'd been paying attention. She'd assumed they'd be able to see the campsite through the trees, not have it curtained off by all this fucking rain. The rocks were even more slippery now, and James nearly fell twice and everything around them was cold and gray and stinging and then James stopped hard.

"I don't remember that being by the campsite," he shouted, and she could just make out an enormous fucking hill in the distance.

"It looks sort of rocky," she yelled back. "Maybe there's a ledge we could sit under to keep the fucking rain off!"

"A ledge?" But he followed, because it was clear that they were lost and it was raining too hard to find their way back and they'd both nearly tripped to death on their way here, when the visibility _wasn't_ shit.

They didn't find a ledge.

"A motherfucking cave!" said Michelle, and spread her arms wide. Her fingertips grazed the walls, but it went deep into the hill, and it was fucking dry.

"Oh, thank god." Even in the dark of the cave, with the dimly lit sky outside, Michelle thought James looked like he'd been fucking drowned. His hair was all scraggly and his face all clammy. It had to be all the soft English living. "That rain really hurts."

"That it does." Michelle shivered, and began shrugging out of her soaked clothes.

James staggered back so fast he nearly fell out into the rain again. "What are you doing?"

"I'm not sitting around in wet clothing and getting hypothermia," said Michelle. She shimmied out of her jeans, then started rubbing warmth back into her thighs. It was worse than the time she'd jumped into the river on a dare, because there was no warm bath or new set of dry clothes on the horizon, but she was feeling less like a fucking block of ice already. "If you go back to the Quinns carrying the fucking plague, you'll be sleeping _under_ the caravan."

"I'm not going to catch the plague," he said, averting the eyes.

Michelle sighed and got a fistful of his dripping wet shirt. She was going to get him out of them whether he liked it or not. It was bad enough to be the girl with the English cousin, she didn't want to be the girl with the English cousin who infected half the fucking country because he wouldn't take his fucking clothes off. And she might just not want him to die. Her aunt knew lots of banging fellas, and she'd never introduce Michelle to any of them if Michelle let her son die.

James squawked and tried to defend himself, because he was ridiculous and English, but Michelle got his top off, and was wrestling for his trousers when he jolted away and Michelle realized that underneath his sopping wet clothes, James was stiff as a rod.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she said, and unbuckled his belt. "It's only natural, my tits look great. Now get the fuck out of your trousers before your balls freeze off."

"Michelle," he protested.

"And Erin blue-balled you before you could get it on with Katia." She tugged the belt out. "Think of it this way: if you catch the consumption, you're certainly dying a virgin."

"I don't really think you can catch consumption from being cold," said James, but dropped trou all the same. He spread his clothes out with more care and consideration than Michelle had, and she realized it'd mean they dried faster, but the only way their clothes would be dry before it stopped raining was if it rained through the night.

She sat on the ground. There was a lighter in one of her pockets, Orla hadn't filched it, and she flicked it to get just a little heat.

James sat down next to her, having apparently decided he'd rather get warm than be a dick about his cock.

"When do you think it'll stop?"

"I don't know," said James. His shoulder brushed hers. He was chafing his skinny white calves. "I checked the weather in the paper and it didn't say anything about rain."

The fucking paper. "You prepared for all this?"

James nodded miserably, and he looked so down that Michelle found herself slinging a companionable arm around his shoulders. "I bought an area map. It was in my bag."

"If Emmett ever crosses my path again, I'm ripping his carroty balls off," swore Michelle. It needed to stop raining before they could find their way back, but if they couldn't find their way back she'd be stuck here, in a cave, with James and dripping clothes, for who knew how long, and she'd be fucking sober.

James winced and hunched in on himself, and Michelle remembered that he was a fella, and he did have testicles, and they tended to be sensitive about the idea of them being hurt--

\--except if anything, the talk of violence seemed to have made James stiffer. Made sense, since he'd been into Erin's Russian, and everyone know the Russians were a violent and unpredictable people. And a bunch of drunks, to boot.

"Thought you were supposed to marry him," said James.

"The cards could be wrong. They could've meant Erin's grandda. He'd be an improvement over Emmett, and he's almost a hundred years old."

James snorted. "I really don't think he is. A hundred years old, that is. Better than Emmett, though, definitely."

"Look," said Michelle, flicking the lighter on again. "I'm sorry about Erin stopping you from riding her Russian." ("Ukrainian," corrected James, back to being a dick.) "She was out of line and Lord knows you could've used it. It's not your fault, you're not a bad looking fella, but you open your mouth and out comes all the English. If you'd only though to pretend to be foreign like Artem-Clive, you wouldn't have this sort of trouble, but everyone already knows, so you do."

"It's not fair," said James, not getting it. "My mum's Irish. My dad was almost certainly Irish. How am I not--"

"No, it's not fair." Michelle tugged him closer, because it was either that or strangle him. "But that's the way it is. It's all right, your ma's going to take you back to England one of these days, and nobody'll balk at your accent there."

James sighed and it gusted straight down Michelle's tits. His shoulder, under her hand, was lightly freckled, and his eyelashes were long and pale.

She had an idea, then, one of those ideas that would have made Erin and Clare horrified and outraged if she told them, but she wasn't planning on telling them. James hadn't been the only one not to get his Russian, and it was fucking freezing, and-- "How intent are you," she asked, "on not dying a virgin?"

"What?" James jerked away and looked at her, then must've decided making eye contact wasn't a good idea, and then must've decided that staring at her tits instead wasn't a good idea either. "Michelle, you aren't seriously offering me a pity fuck."

"Of course not," she said, and she could tell he was more than a wee bit disappointed by her answer, "I was thinking more of a pity handjob."

Michelle could see him breathe in and out sharply, see his cock twitch against the white fabric of his pants. She considered extinguishing the lighter to give him a bit more privacy, but fuck that. "We're cousins," he said, like he was trying, and failing, to sound aghast.

"I thought the English were into that."

"Again, I'm not really that English, and besides, that's--the royal family. Lords. Ladies. People like that."

"So they can, but you can't, because you're not a fucking earl?"

James leaned back and covered his face with his long-fingered, freckled, broad hands. "Christ."

"What," said Michelle, and put a leg over James, "He fuck his cousins too?" James had jolted up beneath her, his hands flying from his face to spasm at her thighs, like he wasn't sure she'd let him touch her or not. "I'm joking, I don't think He had any cousins."

"Are you really--"

Michelle leaned down over him, hands on his shoulders. "Failing RE? Probably." He was shivering beneath her, almost certainly not because of the cold now. "James?"

He groaned. "What?"

"If you--" It made it more difficult, being completely sober. "If you don't want this, say the word, and it'll be like it never happened."

James was breathing hard, in and out, and Michelle could feel him straining. He was staring up at her like he had no clue what was going on, and, well, he wouldn't, would he, and Michelle was about to get off him rather than get him off when he said, "I'm not saying anything."

"All right," said Michelle. His eyes were ridiculously dark because there was barely any light in the cave, and for a second she thought about sticking some of their clothes under his head so he wouldn't bash it on the dirt, but he was hard under her, mashed right up against her through their pants, and she'd got on him at just the right angle, and there was no point in talking about it any further. She usually wasn't after fellas for the conversation anyway.

Mostly James said, "oh," and "wow," and, after he'd come in his pants after a few minutes of riding, and saw Michelle slipping a hand into hers, "Can I--"

"Maybe next time," panted Michelle, "I don't want you fumbling your way around a clit in the dark."

James just tucked his hands behind her knees, and there was something sweet about that, and after she was done Michelle didn't exactly want to roll off him. Her hair was drying on her back, and James was getting warm beneath her. Probably blushing so much he could steam dry their clothes.

But roll off him she did, because sooner or later he'd complain about the weight of her, or the dirt under his back, or the wet spot on his pants. Michelle considered that they really should strip and let the rain clean them off, but she didn't want her underthings to be fucking freezing too. 

James said, in the dark, "That was amazing."

"You're welcome," Michelle said. It came back to her now, that she'd said next time, and if she were to be honest, there probably would be a next time. The English might have been wrong about almost everything, but the cousin fucking thing was grand. 

He shifted to his side, looked at her. "Is this why your mum didn't want us staying at your place while she and Martin are at work? Because she was afraid we'd do this? She said she didn't trust me."

Michelle sighed, and slung a leg over him. There was no more embarrassment on his part about keeping close to stay warm. "James," she said, "when she said she didn't trust you, she meant she was afraid you'd get us all abducted and/or killed by the Provos. Or by the Orangemen. Or whoever else is fucking out there."

"Oh," said James.

Michelle could have added that that was why he was English, no matter where his parents came from, because it wouldn't occur to him to worry about something like that. But she didn't, because he was warm, and he was soft, and he was yawning in her arms. She was alarmed by her sudden sense of tenderness towards him. It was only the hormones, but still, hormones were a powerful thing.

"By the way," James said, tucking his head into her neck, like somehow she could protect him from sectarian violence, "I'm reasonably certain John the Baptist was Jesus's cousin, and almost entirely certain that they weren't fucking."

"Are you, though?" said Michelle. "When John the Baptist gave such great head."

James snorted and shoved at her a little. "Oh my god."

"I once told that joke to Sister Michael," said Michelle, "and she just sighed and said she was refusing to respond to it."

"You mean she didn't tell you to think on your immortal soul?" James asked, a smile in his voice.

She ran her fingers down his back, pressed her hand against his warming skin. "Don't be a dick, James," she said, but she was smiling too, and only glad that he couldn't see it.


End file.
